Author's Note: I had such a great time writing this. I am so grateful to be inspired by this couple. I missed writing like this. I hope you enjoy chapter two! Any feedback is appreciated, if you do want to give it. It's such a pleasure to see people are enjoying the product of my rambling lol.

Derek and Meredith had built a house of windows. It was a structure of transparency, and in the night hours, starlight often skimmed the halls. The house was rarely as dark as it was now, but inexplicably, after Amelia's moment on the deck, the clouds had moved to cover the moon. Her home was dark now, shadows in every corner, blank walls reflecting clouds of milky purple.

It was quiet.

Owen could almost feel Amelia's sluggishness as she wandered around the dim kitchen, opening cabinets, trying to host him now. It was almost one in the morning. "I really don't need tea, Amelia. I'm fine."

Amelia shook her head. She didn't want to say it, but making Owen tea was necessary. Her grief was still raw, and she was spent; she couldn't cry anymore. But when she closed her eyes, she saw Derek's phantom smiles. His laughter was burned into her memory, from the age of ten to the point where his hair had begun to gray, and for the past year, she'd pushed it all away. Now she hadn't the resolve to push anymore. In the unfathomable darkness of this glass house, she saw wisps of Derek everywhere. And though her body refused to cry, she was aching at the clarity of it all, and all she wanted to do was make tea for Owen. If only for the reason that she wanted to ignore everything else and watch him drink it.

"I'm making you tea," she said.

He didn't argue.

The cup she gave him was warm to touch, and he enjoyed it more than he thought he would have. He hadn't held a cup of tea in a long time. "I'm sorry, I only had green tea," Amelia said.

"It's perfect," he said, sniffing the steam. Amelia noticed the look on his face as he breathed it in, and only then realized that he was still wearing his uniform. He was probably tired, too.

"You should probably go. I'm keeping you up."

The comfortable look on his face vanished as worry crossed his sharp features. Amelia shifted her weight uneasily.

"You're not," he said. "Actually..." He looked her over. She seemed to be bracing on her counter stool for support, and though it was almost unnoticeable, the ends of her soft curls were shaking with a remaining tremor. He was trained in the U.S. Army to notice details like these. He could spot a squatting sniper on the roof of a building almost half a mile away, and he'd spent years perfecting this skill. "I'd like to stay here tonight, if that's alright with you?"

She let a breath out slowly. She wasn't sure how much more company she wanted tonight. Some part of her wanted to hide from him now, after she'd bared so much of herself to him earlier. "You could sleep in Derek's old room," she offered.

"I'll take the couch," he said instead. He wasn't too fond of the idea of sleeping in a dead man's bed. And he'd gotten used to sleeping on cots. The couch would be more comfortable anyway.

"I'll get you a blanket."

She disappeared into a nearby room and threw an open-weave, crochet blanket onto the couch in the living room. Then she stood there for a moment, staring at it. He recognized the look on her face, having seen it so often in the operating room. She was concentrating, trying to piece something difficult together so that it would make sense. "You need a pillow," she said finally.

He let out a small laugh. "Okay," he said.

She left again and returned in a few moments to throw a pillow onto the couch. Then she stared at it again, the look of concentration returning. She bit her lip. Her vision was betraying her now, and she didn't bother turning on the lights. She gave up trying to figure out if the couch was adequate enough to be a bed for the night. "Good night," she said simply.

Owen got up from his position at the counter and crossed the room to where she was standing. He tipped her chin up to look at her better, then leaned forward to embrace her. She closed her eyes, a bit jarred by the feeling of his arms around her again so soon. "Good night, Amelia," he said against her hair.

She breathed a shaky breath, then closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel his arms around her, strong and smelling faintly of pine needles. In her mind's eye, Derek's smiling face flashed again, and she felt a pang of sharpened longing. She felt a sob form, renewed, at the back of her throat, and it was all she could do to squelch it down before any sound could erupt. She worried what would happen when she was left alone with her memories, and for a moment, she was relieved that Owen was staying the night.

It was going to be a long one.

Owen was dreaming, and oddly enough, he knew it. He'd developed the skill of recognizing dreams ever since he'd unconsciously attacked Cristina, and he'd vowed to himself that he'd never do it again. He was beginning to get better at it now. He knew the difference between dreams and reality, current trauma and subconscious memory. But he hadn't yet learned how to change anything in his dreams, or if it were even possible—so now, as he walked in an expanse of memory-constructed desert, he could only wait and see if he'd wake up anytime soon.

He couldn't see anything substantial around him. Only thick, pale sand, and a jagged horizon. The sun marred the dunes in the distance, casting a rippling haze through the sky. He knew he had to keep walking, though he had no clue what he was walking toward; there was simply no other option than to keep moving forward. When he looked down, he noticed he'd lost his shoes, and was stepping over the hot sand with bare feet. Instantly, they began to hurt. A sore formed on his foot—an infection of some sort, that quickly became bloodied. Grainy streaks of red mud formed on his skin, which started to peel. He wondered briefly if nightmares were the only dreams he'd be able to have now, as he couldn't remember having a good dream in years. He stared down as the sand beneath him began to shift.

His blanket was moving.

Rather, someone was moving it.

"Gah!" He jerked awake, arms flailing out. Amelia was sitting in front of him in the darkness, her figure shadowed and silent. One of her hands was in his jacket pocket, which he'd forgotten to take off, so accustomed to sleeping in it. His heart sank as his initial panic receded. He'd put the packet of oxy in that pocket earlier, and he knew she'd seen him do it.

A surge of anger erupted within him—they'd just gone through this. Furthermore, he probably could have just broken her nose startling awake like that, if only she'd been a few inches higher up. He looked down at her, poised to yell, but stopped at the tormented look on her face. Her eyes clouded in guilt. "It's not what you think," she said. Her voice was hoarse again.

"What the hell... what are you doing, Amelia? Please tell me this isn't... God, do you realize I could have killed you just now?"

"Owen, I can't breathe. I need to find that bag." He let out a noise of utter dismay. "No," she said, "...not like that. Listen to me, please..." She struggled to find the words. "I need to get rid of it. I can't have it here. Not when I feel like this. Not when I see him every time I close my eyes." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Not when I see...all of them. Every last one of them, Owen." She looked at him now, her eyes more pained than before. "You have drugs in your freaking pocket and I'm seeing ghosts. I can't breathe, Owen, damn it I can't even breathe." Her voice cracked on the last word, and the sound of it made him falter.

He stared at her for a moment before pulling the bag of drugs out, himself. Her eyes darted to it, then quickly, she averted her gaze. He glanced at the wall clock—four a.m. She'd probably been lying awake for hours. "Please, get rid of it." She said the words through gritted teeth.

He was in the bathroom flushing the stuff before she could utter another word. When he came back to the living room, she was still sitting there on the floor, now resting her head in her hands, elbows propped up on the couch cushion. He sighed.

"Ghosts, huh?"

She didn't have to answer. She sniffed, not even trying to hide the fact that she was crying again. This was officially a new record for her in terms of the waterworks. She thought back to his rant on the deck, about feeling emotions instead of numbing them, surviving pain; being human. Being alive felt an awful lot like dying.

"Come on," he said, coming over to her. "You need to sleep. It's late. It'll help."

She nodded and got up, self-consciously tugging on the hem of her nightgown. She hadn't expected him to wake up, and she felt underdressed now. Her dress was too plain a cotton to be considered lingerie, but it was short, and low-cut. He'd seen her in less, but that had been over a year ago.

She glanced at him quickly and saw his eyelids flicker away from her body. If he'd noticed her attire, he'd covered his reaction fast, and now she couldn't tell if she was relieved or disappointed. One thing was for sure. She was bone-crushingly exhausted. Now that the drugs were gone, she couldn't be tempted anymore. Owen's jacket lay crumpled on the floor, discarded. Sleep was blurring the edges of her awareness.

His hand was insistent on her shoulder, the bare skin of his forearm now warm against her neck. He led her back to her bed and climbed in behind her. She didn't even think to protest. The scent of him was stronger now—encompassing. She felt him slide up behind her, and she gasped softly as his hands encircled her belly. She could feel the scratchy stubble of his chin against her shoulder.

"Go to sleep," he said.

The mental images of lost loved ones faded as she listened to his breaths even out, whispers of air brushing against her ear. She let her hand come down to hold the arm that encircled her, resting chastely beneath her ribcage. It was possessive, even as he slept.

"I'll sleep now," she said.

And she did.